


The Iron Five

by strangepineapples



Category: Magisterium Series - Holly Black & Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangepineapples/pseuds/strangepineapples
Summary: Constantine and co's Iron Year, because we need more content about them.
Relationships: Alastair Hunt & Constantine Madden, Alastair Hunt & Sarah Novak Hunt, Alastair Hunt/Constantine Madden, Alastair Hunt/Sarah Novak Hunt, Jericho Madden & Declan Novak, Jericho Madden/Declan Novak
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	1. The Iron Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1's release as a birthday gift on Valentine's Day- to Constantine and Jericho! Happy Birthday!

Constantine Madden wasn’t nervous.

He was truly confident enough in his magic capabilities to think that he’d breeze through the Trial with precisely no problems whatsoever. So now, legs cramping from being cooped up in his mother’s Vauxhall for too long, he cast a glance at his brother.

Jericho was curled up on the seat, deeply engrossed in the latest novel he’d picked up. He’d read the entire journey despite Eliza’s nagging comments to put it down. And, miraculously, hadn’t gotten car-sick.

Constantine grinned impishly and leaned over to scruff his brother’s hair up, which earned him a quiet swat on the hand.

“Worried, nerd?” he teased. Jericho shrugged non-committedly, not even looking up from the pages, suggesting he’d barely heard what Con had said.

“Mhm.” Constantine sat back, annoyed. Then he seized the book out of Jericho’s hands and dangled it where he couldn’t reach across the car to take it back.

“Whatcha reading?” Con squinted at the upside-down pages. Jericho made no attempt to snatch it away from him.

“I’d tell you, if only you gave it to me,” he grumbled. The car door swung open, and there their mother stood, jangling her keys impatiently.

“Out!”

“We’re not late though,” Constantine muttered, tossing the novel back at Jericho. For this he received a light flick in the forehead. “Ow.”

Once out, Con relished in finally getting the opportunity to stretch his legs. The scorching sun was merciless, beating down on the back of the battered leather jacket he refused to ever take off. He shoved his hands deep inside his jean pockets as they walked into the giant airplane hangar entrance.

It was chaos. Families hung in clusters, their loud voices echoing bizarrely in the empty room. Countless rows of bleachers were propped up against the far wall despite the significant lack of aspirants that had turned up. Constantine grinned; he was fighting the urge to run in crazy circles in the wide open space. Jericho wasn’t enjoying the controlled chaos as much as Con. He was shrinking into Eliza’s side, looking to be in quite the spot of discomfort. Jericho wasn’t the only one with a distaste for the substantial crowd. Their mother took a single sweeping glance over all the aspirants hollering in the bleachers and let out an exasperated sigh. Though she said nothing, Constantine could feel the disapproval almost rolling off her in waves.

They took their seats right near the front, much to Jericho’s apparent horror and Eliza’s insistence. A pair of Hispanic (perhaps?) kids- Another set of twins, he thought excitedly- sat next to them, and Con assumed the adults standing by them while chatting had to be their parents. The pair leaned back in their seats while exuding the same confidence he felt. But before he had a chance to say hello properly, a dozen mages had marched to the front of the vast space. Constantine blinked; they wore odd robe-like clothing he’d never seen before. Then again, practically the only mages he really knew were his mother, a friend of his mother's, his late father and of course, Jericho. Leather-and-metal cuffs were clasped around their wrists, a bit like the sort he had seen Eliza wearing a few times.

Unanimous silence fell upon the crowd as though one of them had cast a spell. An important looking mage, old and broad-shouldered, strode up to the front to address the kids and their parents in the bleachers.

“Welcome aspirants, and welcome families of aspirants, to the most significant afternoon of your child’s life.” At this, Jericho leaned over.

“I wonder how many times he’s had to recite that exact same speech.” Constantine had to restrain a snort as his mother elbowed him and gestured for quiet.

“Some of you have travelled long distances to be here today, and for that, the mages of the Magisterium wish to extend our gratitude.” Murmuring and confused whispers arose in the bleachers at the odd words.

_Mages?_

_Magisterium?_

While the important mage carried on his ramblings about how the afternoon would be structured, how long it would take, and et cetera, Con drifted in his thoughts, letting himself tune out the echoing words. That was, until he heard a deep and rumbling voice that startled him right out of his trance. It came from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, sounding like meaningless thumps which registered a few seconds later as words.

_When Master North has finished speaking, all aspirants must rise and come to the front. The Trial is about to begin._

Con could almost laugh aloud while watching the clueless faces amongst the people. Some were nervously glancing around for the source, and most of the parents sat in silent confusion. As the dull speech started to finish, kids stood up and tried to climb down, making the steps shake.

“So, was that meant to be the first test?” Jericho deadpanned, any previous anxiety erased by annoyance.

“They’ll get harder, I’m sure,” Eliza replied, scrutinizing one of the mages intently. The mage was a tall dark-skinned man dressed in the same loose-fitting outfits the others wore. His face studied those in the bleachers with a serene expression, calm and unruffled. Con thought that perhaps if the speech had been delivered by this mystery man, he would have paid attention a little more. Jericho snapped him out of his thoughts by pulling Constantine up by the sleeve.

“Hurry,” he scolded. “Everyone’s already down there.”

At the bottom, kids were being waved into groups and assigned to a particular Master. A woman gestured at them to follow the man their mother had been eyeing earlier, who was still scanning the faces in the stands. Con wondered who it was he was looking for. The thought didn’t last long as they were herded down a long bland corridor branching off of the hangar’s main room. The mage didn’t bother with introductions; those following had to hurry to match his stride or risk falling behind. Within moments, Constantine recognized the twin faces of the people that had been sitting next to them, the boy and girl he missed the chance to greet.

“Hey,” he waved them to the back. “How’s it going?” The boy turned around.

Thick dark curls sprawled across his eyes, which brimmed with an easy-going, laid-backness. Balanced atop those unruly curls was a red cap. Checks out, Con thought amusedly, noticing the loose t-shirt and his hands shoved deep into his cargo shorts.

“What’s up?” he nodded once, an upward tilt of his head. The girl spun around curiously to see who her brother was talking to.

Much unlike her brother, her hair fell in straight curtains, neatly pinned back so that the full intensity of her fierce gaze could scrutinise him. She could kill with that look. With further assessment, Constantine elatedly noted her clothing.

“Great fashion choice, by the way!” he grinned, giving her a pair of finger-guns. The girl looked down at her simple flannel and jeans, startled, as though she had forgotten what she was wearing.

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “…Thanks?”

Jericho kept extremely quiet as they trudged further into the never-ending labyrinth of hallways that seemingly criss-crossed over each other, to the point where he wondered whether the Master even knew where they were going. But the man didn’t hesitate as he rounded each corner, so Jericho stayed silent. Just when Jericho’s feet began to ache after passing dozens of identical doors, they stopped at one.

The room was that of a typical classroom. The desks were scuffed and wooden, as though they had been used in a proper class setting, where students had scratched their initials and odd little messages. Each desk bore a blue book, a pen and a placard. There was an immense shuffling as everyone searched for their names. Jericho ended up between his brother and the boy, whose name, Declan, was spelt out on the placard before him. He gave a polite wave to Declan and glanced at the book and back up at the teacher’s desk. It was empty; the Master was still corralling them into the classroom.

The boy sitting on Constantine’s other side, Jericho noted, was of slight build and stature, half slumped over his desk in efforts to not be seen. His glasses were quaintly old-fashioned- much like the rest of what he wore- with rectangular steel rims. A dark ruffle of hair shrouded his eyes, and framed a set jaw and frightfully pale skin. He might even have been quite handsome, had his features been less angular with the tell-tale signs of malnourishment, or his eyes behind those glasses less expressionless and blank. If Jericho squinted enough, and leaned far over his desk enough (which of course he wouldn’t do for fear of looking like an idiot), he would have been able to read ‘Alastair Hunt’ printed in block capitals.

It seemed Jericho wasn’t the only one who had noticed the boy’s presence; Constantine was half out of his seat and greeting him, overly all-smiles and charismatic compliments, while Alastair bristled with apprehension and a slight hint of irritation.

A clatter knocked him back to his senses. The mage was scrawling something on the chalkboard in elegant, looping script. Jericho winced as the chalk dragged across in not-so-elegant squeaks. Upon the board was written ‘Master Rufus’. The mage gestured to the names and then at them. “Please write your names and my name on the front of your books.”

Murmurs of confusion spread throughout the class when they tried to mark their books with the pen that been laid before them. Master Rufus smiled patiently at the few who hadn’t figured it out already. “Shake the pen to get the ink working.”

Rufus waited before continuing. “As you all have most likely guessed, this is not the school you thought you were trying out for. Some might have received invitations to attend a military school, or one that focuses on the sciences. However, you are all here to be trialled for acceptance to the Magisterium.”

The walls and floor momentarily shifted, causing Jericho to feel dizzy despite remaining firmly in his seat. They were now replaced by very solid looking stone, shimmering with flecks of what seemed to be glitter. Stalactites dangled overhead like the icicles he might have seen on his front porch. If the entire thing was an illusion, it was a very good one; Jericho couldn’t find the seams in the magic. “Awesome!” Murmurs rose around the newly-transformed room.

Master Rufus continued. “I know many of you must be legacy students,”-the kids erupted in whispers of affirmation. The boy with old-fashioned glasses and dark hair seemed to sink even further into his seat. “-and I know there are also some who aren’t but have the potential. None of you are guaranteed a place just yet. Only the mages know what makes the perfect student.”

Declan raised his hand in a lazy wave, and didn’t wait to be called on before speaking.

“What if you don’t get picked?”

“Your magic will be bound,” Rufus said gravely, a sudden switch of tone. Jericho looked up momentarily in horror. Eliza had mentioned the binding of one’s magic, and Jericho was fairly sure her unnecessarily in-depth explanation had scarred him for life. So, to think that the Magisterium would use such means to tear a person’s magic away from them seemed almost inhumane. Puzzled exclamations increased in volume. Master Rufus ignored them.

“The books laid in front of you contain the exam questions. Shake your pens as before, and please do show your working out. The test will begin… now!”

There was a frenzied scuffle of paper as everyone fought to open their book. Jericho peered at the first question, and almost laughed in relief.

**1\. A fire elemental consumes three moderately sized cave crystals, and then absorbs a metal mage who has crossed four of the five gates. Calculate the percentage increase in power, given that the elemental began with 14%.**

That was easy enough, he thought. All of the exam preparation drilled into his head by his mother hadn’t been for nothing. Jericho quickly glanced around before scrawling his own answer down. More than half the kids were flipping the pages repeatedly, confounded. Others were struggling to mark the paper with their fancy pens. Although, a few were determinedly scribbling the answers down, smiles rapidly spreading across their faces. His brother was one of them.

**2\. If a healing mage is poisoned with a wyvern’s venom, how long will it take for the mage to die? Factor in that the healing mage has had approximately two years of experience in the Collegium.**

Every question was as easy as the first, and Jericho found his confidence growing with each one he answered. He spared one more glance at Constantine, who was more than half-way through with thirty minutes still to go.

_We’re going to ace this._


	2. Skittles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Magisterium Day! also alastair my poor child

Sarah confidently handed her test paper back.

There was no way she and Declan weren’t going to get some of the highest scores in the Trial. She had surely eased through the paper with flying colours.

Now, their class of kids were being handed over to a man with watery blue eyes and a running red nose. He blew the whistle around his neck loud enough to pop Sarah’s eardrums.

“I am Master Redkettle, and I will be taking you to the next test,” he leered. Sarah leaned away from the stink of his breath. She instantly decided that she would rather have Master Rufus over Redkettle any day.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by more classroom doors swinging open and people pouring into the hallway. Masters were trying and failing to get the kids under control.

“Alright, I’ll be handing you over to Master Redkettle for the physical test. Pay attention and listen to his instructions!” A female mage yelled, before disappearing back into the classroom, probably to get some peace and quiet.

Their small group had increased practically tenfold, and Redkettle’s temper seemed to increase with it. By the time they reached the room where they would be taking their physical exam, the entirety of the aspirants had tagged along.

Finally, the narrow, bland corridor widened into a big, empty space, not unlike the hangar they had been in during the beginning. Sarah and Declan’s parents were still in there, still totally clueless about the whole magic thing.

What would happen when they reunited at the end, Sarah wondered? Would she tell them everything she had learned about magic- provided she secured a place and didn’t have her memory wiped and magic _bound._ It didn’t seem very fair to continually fool them into thinking that they were attending a sports academy. Or maybe the Magisterium would reveal its true identity? She knew that if she was in her parents’ place, she would be more than a little irritated at her kids’ ambiguity.

The room had vibrant lines painted across the floor, the first pops of colour Sarah had seen in a while. _Courts,_ she thought excitedly. They were standing in a gigantic gymnasium, the one place where she knew she would excel.

Declan was wearing a twin expression of delight. Constantine was smirking and waving a hand in front of Jericho, who was staring up at a dangling rope ladder with uncertainty. A dawning horror slowly descended upon Alastair’s face as he noticed the red rubber ball at the very top. Everywhere there were groans and noises of protest.

“Oh, come on!”

“They can’t be serious!”

No-one (asides from the Novak twins, of course) seemed to be particularly thrilled with the idea of physical exertion.

Redkettle blew his whistle twice.

“Alright,” he roared. “All you maggots will have to do is knock that ball down from where it’s sitting! Easy enough, who’s going first?”

Everybody shuffled and squirmed under his gaze, unwilling to be the first. All, except Sarah and Declan. Their hands shot up eagerly, but Redkettle’s eyes roved over them.

“Nobody?” Sarah inched her hand up a little higher. “Well, what a shame! I suppose I’m going to have to pick someone.”

All the aspirants simultaneously took a step back, leaving Sarah and Declan in front. As if that wasn’t enough of a hint for him, he pointed a gnarled finger at Jericho, who practically wilted in place.

“You!”

“I, uh- me?”

Constantine nudged him forward with a reassuring smile playing at his lips. Jericho audibly swallowed and took a couple shaky steps to where the ladder dangled uninvitingly. A collective hush fell over the aspirants. Sarah didn’t know what they were thinking, but she sure hoped this kid beat the test.

Jericho hesitantly put a foot down on the lowest rung. After a second of held breaths, it stayed steady.

“Are you quite ready, yet, mister?” Redkettle’s mouth curled upward into a cruel sneer. “We’re all waiting.” Sarah resisted the urge to strangle him with his own rope ladder.

Then, as if by pure magic (which it probably was, in hindsight) the ladder lengthened by a couple feet, leaving several coils of braided rope on the shiny gymnasium floor. Jericho yelped and started away from it, but then paused and looked up at the red rubber ball.

With a renewed air of defiance, Jericho tugged on the ladder until the rope couldn’t go any further. Beaming, he climbed his way steadily up to the top, and knocked the ball from where it was sitting on its perch.

Redkettle almost blew his top right then and there, but whatever he’d wanted to yell was exhaled in a violent breath.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling out a clipboard. “Fine. Who’s next?” Sarah perked up immediately.

“Me, sir,” she called as loudly as she dared.

Redkettle’s stare was like a vulture’s, burning furiously into her back. She ignored him; he was a jerk and was only trying to unnerve her. Declan whistled lowly behind her in encouragement.

She prowled around the rope like a tiger does with its prey, assessing where she should try and latch on.

It was like she was moving on automation, like being a puppeteer manoeuvring a set of strings. Higher and higher she climbed, until the ball was just in reach. Her outstretched fingers barely caught the bottom.

“Come on, Sarah!” she heard someone yell. Her brother, perhaps, but she was so focused on the ball that she couldn’t tell.

_There._

The ball fell with dizzying speed, and as the ladder lowered her down she felt her heart pound with adrenaline. Whoops and cheers assaulted her, the loudest being Declan’s. He slung an arm around her when she walked back, his face swelling with pride. Redkettle had been watching with a gawking mouth, until he promptly resumed character.

“Next!”

Declan pushed his way to the front with a self-assured smile. Sarah could barely control her elation. _I did great, and he’ll do great, and we’ll go to magic school together!_ It almost seemed too whimsical, too fantastical.

Declan performed with as much ease as she did, perhaps even beating her time. When he slithered down to everyone’s applauding, his shirt was sticking to him in places. He mopped his brow.

“I did good?” he asked.

“You did great!” Sarah squealed, dragging him to where she stood.

Several other aspirants had their turns. Lots got halfway or below, and some could even climb a little higher than half. Three or four others managed to knock down the shiny red lure. This continued until there were two left.

Constantine and Alastair.

Constantine had been boredly watching each person fail time after time, again and again. He clapped politely for those who did manage to do it, clapping the loudest for Jericho and the twins, of course. But the initial excitement had worn off quickly. So when he realised that he hadn’t had his turn yet, he volunteered.

There was no hiding the look of absolute relief on Alastair’s face when Con stepped forward.

Constantine strode up to the rope with a confident smirk to rival Declan’s. Jericho vaguely wondered what trick his brother had up his sleeve this time.

Slowly, he raised a hand.

He was turned away from the audience looking on, so no-one could see the look of utter joy when he realised that he’d just outsmarted the cocky and arrogant Master.

Constantine snapped his fingers.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Whispers arose among the waiting aspirants.

“What’s he doing?”

“Was that meant to do something?”

Their audible deliberation was cut short when a sharp gust of stiff, cool breeze sliced through the air above them. The ethereal tendrils pulled the ball from where it hovered on its gravity-defying branch.

There was a deafening silence of awe. Redkettle stood spluttering.

“You never said we had to climb the ladder. You only said we had to knock it down,” Con said, and his prideful but almost accusatory tone reminded Declan of someone who knew they had won the argument- and was revelling in it.

Redkettle turned an ugly purple and Declan was sure he was about to have a stroke. Instead, he began angrily muttering and waved him away from the ladder.

“Is that everyone? We’re going now,” he yelled, sounding keen to get out of the gymnasium as soon as possible.

“He’s just mad so many people beat his stupid test,” Declan heard Con mutter and he had to restrain a laughing fit. He was pretty sure bursting into giggles would do nothing to quell Redkettle’s temper.

“Sir!” called a pretty blonde girl Declan thought was named Michelle. “He hasn’t gotten a go yet!” She pointed at Alastair, who folded into himself. The boy with glasses winced as he met Redkettle’s hard glare.

“Can I… skip my turn, maybe?” he suggested weakly. Redkettle’s death glare intensified. “Oh, okay,” he added quietly in a defeated tone.

Like he was afraid the ladder would bite him, Alastair edged nervously toward it, eyes shifting uneasily behind his glasses. His pale hand drifted unsurely to the rope, but then he retracted it sharply, as though he’d touched an open flame. He cast one more glance at Redkettle, who shook his head and gestured exaggeratedly to his watch and then at the rope.

Letting out a reticent sigh, he clutched both sides of the ladder and looked up. Declan was sure he was about to start climbing when out of the blue, Alastair swung the ladder hard one way, and then, from the gathered momentum, watched as it knocked down the ball at the very top.

Redkettle stomped his foot in frustration, then scribbled something down on his clipboard. He made an exaggerated show of pulling the door open and leaving. Declan thought Alastair looked secretly pleased with himself.

The final test was held in a classroom not unlike the one they’d been in for the written exam, except all the tables had been pushed together into four groups whereas the previous had been separated. There weren’t any placards this time, so Declan sat at a conjoined table near the front, alongside Sarah and the other set of twins.

Alastair stood uncertainly as a flurry of people moved past him, settling into seats and chattering with their friends. That was, until Constantine called over to him.

“Hey!” he waved. “Here! Alastair, over here!” The boy’s gaze slid to the empty chair by their table, then back at the other tables, which were all filled. _So much for sitting alone,_ he mused, but couldn’t tell whether it was a happy thought or a regretful one.

The others were friendly enough toward him, but Alastair had always preferred to keep to himself, confiding only in his books and whatever new contraption he managed to fix up. People were too unreliable. They changed, and he couldn’t trust them. He _wouldn’t_ , he vowed. It was trusting himself, of all people, and trusting his own ability that got him stuck in several foster homes, being tossed around like a ragdoll. Machines were reliable. And even when they weren’t, you could always fix them yourself. People weren’t like that- they needed to fix themselves, and you needed to rely on them to do just that. _That_ was the problem. Alastair didn’t want to rely on anyone.

So, with all this crowding in his head, he sat quietly at the table, listening politely to whoever was rambling off last night’s soccer turnouts or the latest political gossip. Alastair’s mind wandered to the sheets of paper sitting before each of them. He prodded them, trying to determine if there was something on the other side.

As if on cue, Redkettle spoke.

“Your final test is to make that piece of paper fly. Start now.” He sounded so tired it was like he’d forgotten to be mad.

Alastair returned his gaze to the others, who were all smiling in equal measures of enthusiasm. But he couldn’t suppress the rising dread in his system. So far, he’d stayed way clear of anything magic ever since the _incident_ , and he had even grown to master control over his accidental outbursts of magic. Essentially, the root of his problem was he’d spent so long trying to curb his magic that he’d totally forgotten how to actually _use_ it.

He stared at the sheet of paper; it stared back. What if he accidentally set it on fire? What if it somehow multiplied a dozen times and created an artificial storm of papers? What if he gave everyone on his table a million paper cuts?

A dozen ridiculous hypotheticals swarmed Alastair’s brain. _No,_ he told himself firmly. He had never put anyone in grave danger from levitating paper before, and he wasn’t about to now. _It’s never happened because you’ve never tried,_ betrayed that small voice in the back of his head.

If he squinted hard enough, and ignored that burning sensation in his eyes, he could see the corner of the paper curling…

Constantine had finished in a grand total of two seconds flat, and was now leaning back in his chair, feeling proud of himself. Declan and Sarah lifted theirs not too soon after Con, and Jericho did his effortlessly.

 _Come on_ , he thought. After a few tense minutes of a staring contest, the paper gradually hovered before fluttering back down. Feeling accomplished despite having completed the task in roughly three minutes after everyone else had, he stood up to pass the paper back to Redkettle’s desk.

Constantine smirked at how easy the test had been. This was a small feat compared to what he’d done in the gym. Digging his hands deeper into his leather jacket’s pockets, he unearthed a half-filled packet of Skittles that he’d been snacking on in the car ride.

Jericho scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Ten bucks says you're the first to die, Con,” he said. “Do you even know how much sugar is in that? You’ve eaten, like, eight packets already.”

“Does it look like I care?” Con grinned, much to his brother’s exasperation.

Despite this, he tossed the package of Skittles to a startled Alastair, who deftly caught it, and then promptly dropped it in puzzlement.

“They’re yours now,” Con winked before turning back to resume his easy-going chatter with Jericho and the Novaks.

Alastair stared uncomprehendingly at the candy on his desk, and then at Constantine, and back at the candy. With some hesitation, he slipped a slightly melted red Skittle into his mouth.

 _Well,_ he thought, tasting the familiar fruitiness of one of his favorite candies. _I suppose I could get used to this._


	3. An Unfortunate Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka why master joseph is shady and cannot be trusted

For the final examination, the candidates waited in a long hallway before a stretching array of doors.

Declan stood in a loose circle with the other aspirants that had been on his table in the previous test. Minus Alastair, who for some reason kept his distance and pretended to be very interested in the hem of his shirt. Declan sighed a breath, one part relief and two parts restless energy. In less than an hour, he would either be counted in for the best opportunity of his life, or leaving the Trial with no memories of magic even existing. He desperately wished for the former.

“Declan Novak?” called a pretty mage with long eyelashes. Declan thought that this was all a little unfair- many of the mages he’d seen were stupidly beautiful. Even in Redkettle’s case, there was something about the sheer aura of his magic that was strangely bewitching. “Master Joseph will see you inside.” Sarah gave his arm a little squeeze before waving him off.

The first thing Declan noticed once he walked in was that it was very dim, a staggering difference to the harsh lighting outside. He had to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted, revealing a large, empty space, much like the cave-classroom, in which a single mage sat on the floor, eerily silent. Declan immediately took back what he had thought about all mages being somewhat alluring. This one made him viscerally recoil.

In the gloom, Declan could make out that Master Joseph seemed to be in his early thirties, despite the dark hair shot through with silver. He also sported a menacing goatee that wouldn’t look out of place on a Disney villain. Fighting off an inexplicable instinctive reaction to run in the other direction, Declan approached warily.

The mage used a pleasant enough tone, but it was pleasant the way a candy witch’s voice was pleasant. Light but threatening beneath the surface. “Declan Novak,” Declan didn’t like the way the man spoke his name. “You’ve done well so far. Let’s see if you can keep that trend.” It sounded like Joseph was plotting to screw this up for him, one way or another.

Joseph took a bowl that was resting beside him, brimming with water. He didn’t spill a drop as he lifted it up to his face and blew, igniting a small spark in the centre of the bowl. It burned disturbingly under the water, never faltering beneath their gazes.

Declan’s brain sought for a way to somehow rationalise what he was seeing. Gasoline? Or some sort of waterproof match? Or…

No. Declan settled for the disconcerting explanation that the man before him had kindled the impossible flame with magic. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, though whether it was from the magic display or from being transfixed with the Master’s cold gaze, he couldn’t tell.

“I would like you to take the bowl. Keep the flame that I have lit burning for as long as you can stand it.” The phrasing of the second sentence was sinister in Declan’s mind as he took the bowl from Joseph’s chalky white hands. His fingers accidentally brushed the older man’s cold ones, and he jerked back with such violence that some water spilled and the flame sputtered.

Joseph watched placidly as Declan began to regain control of the flame, which steadily brightened and didn’t waver. The boy had to restrain himself from chucking his red cap at Master Joseph’s staring face. He was sure that the man was purposefully trying to mess him up, but dismissed the thought. Surely, a Master wouldn’t do that.

When a full minute or so had passed, and Declan was boredly tilting the bowl back and forth to watch the ripples, Joseph abruptly took it back and placed it on the floor beside him. “How did you find the task?”

“Boring,” he said truthfully. “Boring and easy.”

Joseph’s face settled into a mocking approximation of a smile. “Good to hear.” Then, with alarming intensity, clutched at Declan’s wrists, holding too tightly them in his grasp. “Remember, in every group of friends, there is one who is left out.” Joseph released him as suddenly as he’d taken hold, lapsing back into his creepy silence.

Feeling ultra-freaked out, Declan backed away until he practically fell through the door and back into the searing artificial light of the hallway.

Sarah was the first to notice that something was up.

“Declan?” she asked worriedly at the sight of his blood-drained face. “What happened in there?”

“There was this guy! He- he was so weird, and you should have seen him! He grabbed me and-”

Declan was cut off by the look on Sarah’s face. “Seriously, Dec? I can’t believe you’re trying to psych me out _again_.”

He was affronted. “I swear! You’re only saying that because you didn’t see it.” Sarah only rolled her eyes in response, and before Declan could do anything- explode, possibly- his sister’s name was called out.

“Sarah Novak, Master Drevis will see you now.”

Sarah nudged him. “Good luck trying to get that to work on anyone.”

Constantine and Jericho had only caught the last few words of the exchange, and were consequently puzzled as to why Declan seemed seconds away from kicking something.

“Hey, man,” Con clapped him on the shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

Declan watched his sister’s back as she disappeared into a doorway further down the hall. “Yeah. It’s nothing.” The lie tasted of bile.

The bleachers were occupied by spread-out rows of tired adults and small children. The resounding echoes of conversation bounced in the hangar’s entrance. It was such a shock to hear noise again after the rather one-sided exchange with Master Joseph. Aspirants were trickling back into the room from the same door Declan had come through, climbing up the bleachers to sit with their parents. A long row of whiteboards had been set up behind where the Masters had stood during the opening introduction, displaying scores.

Declan, for once, completely ignored the scores and made a bee-line to where Sarah and their parents were already sitting. He protested weakly as his mother enveloped him in a hug and demanded to know how the Trial went. He was saved from answering by his father.

“Maria, lay off him. You’ve already interrogated Sarah.”

“I just want to know!”

The mages, in a sea of charcoal tunics, re-entered the space. Master Joseph was standing next to Master Rufus and they seemed to be passionately discussing something that involved a lot of gesturing in their general direction.

“There!” Declan hissed, pointing not at all surreptitiously toward Joseph. “Sarah, that’s the guy I was talking about. Dad, he was so creepy!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with him,” Sarah observed. Declan smacked her arm in irritation, for which he received a scolding from his mother.

“Of course you don’t. You’d have to get up close.”

She wasn’t listening anymore. Instead, she was studying the scores behind Joseph. A triumphant smile spread across her face.

“I got higher than you did!”

 _“What?”_ He didn’t like to call himself competitive- but he was annoyed nonetheless.

“Sucks to suck,” she told him, and then stuck her tongue out. He shoved her.

Sure enough, Sarah wasn’t lying. She had tied second with Alastair, and he had tied third with Jericho. He scanned the board for who was placed first, and-

“Constantine got first place,” Sarah looked in awe. “I think that’s the highest score they’ve had in the Trial, ever!”

“Don’t act like you knew that already,” Declan scoffed. “Someone told you.” It was Sarah’s turn to shove him.

The young Master North strode to the front of the mages, and the crowd fell silent within seconds. Declan searched the crowd for familiar faces. Constantine and Jericho sat near the front, elated, while their mother, a prim woman in ivory, nodded proudly to herself. Alastair was far at the back, where Declan had to crane his neck to see him. He was vacantly staring at the whiteboards as though in silent distrust. If he had come with anyone, Declan couldn’t see them.

“Aspirants,” he began, and everyone held a collective breath. “thank you for being here with us today, and for giving your best effort in the Trial. The Magisterium also wishes to thank the families of our aspirants who waited so patiently for them to finish.” He folded his arms and his gaze swept over the bleachers.

“Compared to recent years, we have an unprecedented amount of talented aspirants. To account for this, the Magisterium has allowed _fifteen_ Masters to select their apprentices, rather than the usual nine, and every single one of them is authorised to choose up to six applicants. Those applicants will be their apprentices for the five years they spend at the Magisterium. It must be understood that although you all display potential and we have several more Masters taking on students, there are still more candidates here than qualify for a place. If you are not chosen, please understand that you may not be suitable for this style of teaching. Before you leave, a Master will explain your obligations of secrecy and give you the means to protect yourselves and your families.”

Declan shivered, remembering what Master Rufus had said about binding their magic. He wondered what all the clueless parents were thinking right now.

“Does anyone have questions?” North asked. The room was silent. Declan’s mother leaned in and whispered comfortingly.

“I’m sure you’ll still get picked,” she said, and Declan was furious because he knew exactly what she was referring to. Sarah had scored a couple of points higher, and now both of his parents were giving him pitying looks.

“Very well! Let the selection process begin!” He stepped back, until he was to the side of the boards. “Master Rufus, if you will.”

Rufus bowed and started up to the front, regarding the rows of people with careful neutrality. “Constantine Madden.” _No surprise there,_ Declan thought, hands twisting his red cap. It must have been pretty annoying to the other Masters that he went straight for the top of the list. There was loud applause and cheering from the aspirants as he made the short walk- from virtually all of them. Even a few Masters were clapping.

“Sarah Novak.” His sister flashed a winner’s smirk as she got up and practically skipped down the steps to take her place beside the satisfied Constantine. Declan felt horrible for hoping she would trip.

“Jericho Madden.” He tried for a smile as he wound his way down the steps. Constantine playfully nudged his brother, slinging an arm around him. Their mother looked pleased.

Meanwhile, Alastair fretted in silent confusion. Rufus had completely skipped over his name, despite tying second place with Sarah. But, did he even _want_ to be placed into their apprentice group, with the inseparable sets of twins? It certainly seemed better than being placed amongst the cliques who would obviously be put together, and it was miles better than not getting a place at all. He wasn’t sure what he felt, besides the obvious twisting in his gut.

“Declan Novak.” Alastair watched with growing worry as a relieved expression crossed Declan’s face, immediately replaced by a self-assured one. He was starting to doubt that he would be chosen after all. It was becoming increasingly apparent that they had made some sort of mistake. That, or he needed a new glasses prescription. There was no way he’d scored second, otherwise he would have been down there by then.

There was a long pause, in which everyone assumed that Rufus was finished. “Well, then. I suppose I shall begin my selection-” Redkettle was interrupted.

“Alastair Hunt.”

Alastair sat rigidly in his seat, barely registering the angry look Redkettle wore. He faintly wondered if that was because he’d been planning on choosing him as an apprentice.

The walk down to the front was nerve-wracking, and at least twice he was sure he would trip and fall in front of everyone. Miraculously, he made it down without incident and swallowed hard as he half-hid behind the Master’s form. Alastair couldn’t even bring himself to acknowledge Constantine’s congratulatory smile. The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur, a transitioning from a numbing shock to quiet contemplation.

_Was this really what he had wanted?_

Constantine and Jericho were excitedly speaking to each other.

“We did it,” Jericho said, breathless. “We got in.”

“Heck yeah, we did!”

“Well done, boys,” commented a familiar voice from behind them. Jericho startled. He stumbled as he whirled around.

“Master Joseph?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Joseph was the acquaintance of his parents, being the man who had arranged their fairly new accommodation in America- and Jericho had only seen him twice or thrice before, but each time they met never failed to give him the creeps. He also had the unfortunate talent of sneaking up on people when they least expected it.

“Yes.” His smile was slightly unsettling, showing a few too many teeth. “Your scores are the best in the history of the Trial, you know. I would have picked you myself had I been taking apprentices this year.” Jericho shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being tutored by him. Constantine was already chatting amicably with the man, either unaware of Joseph’s sickly sweet exterior or, more likely, didn’t care.

 _So what?_ Jericho shook himself off. So what if having to deal with this guy was a downside of attending the Magisterium? He was only a little disturbing- and that never hurt anybody. Besides, if Con could deal with it, so could he.

As much as he didn't believe it, watching Joseph observe Constantine in a way Jericho didn't like, he told himself that it would be fine.

_Everything would be fine._


End file.
